


Chocolate

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7344355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin hopes this is a ploy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to Siadea for introducing me to Salgant and betaing!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The History of Middle Earth or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He must think Maeglin comes to discuss strategies, and at first, it is that—Maeglin always delivers these subtle plans in person, sure to let no one outside his sphere of influence know. But then Maeglin lays those plans out across the table—a map with no markings; safer just to point and explain and leave no trace—and Salgant looks uncomfortable, as he occasionally does, with the full extent of their almost-treason.

So Maeglin takes a calculated step sideways and slips his slender fingers into Salgant’s thicker palm. Salgant looks sharply aside at him, frowning, perhaps knowing what’s to come, but Salgant never stops it. It’s Salgant that _burns for it_ ; Maeglin doesn’t need to read minds to know that. He leans over Salgant’s shoulder and brushes his lips across Salgant’s dully-pointed ear, purring, “You do support me, do you not?”

A quiet shiver winds through Salgant’s body. He’s much older but a tad shorter, his shoulders broad and his muscles hard, body wider for it, yet his sturdiness seems to evaporate under Maeglin’s seduction. Maeglin squeezes Salgant’s hand tight and coos, “I hope you do, because I _need you_.” Salgant’s eyes fall closed, and for a moment, his face tightens. Perhaps he knows he’s being played, but that doesn’t change anything.

He lets his emotions rule him too frequently: the failing of a minstrel. Maeglin uses that and delivers the final blow: he tugs gently on Salgant’s hand and draws him across the room, away from the table below the window and over the plush rug, onto the high four-poster bed that Salgant’s over-decorated in gaudy pillows. Maeglin moves into them and displays himself like another piece of finery.

Salgant sighs and follows— _easy_ —and crawls over Maeglin’s thinner form. Maeglin still looks as young as he is, is lithe and soft like most elves, and Salgant’s stronger body casts a wide shadow over him. When Maeglin first perceived this weakness, that thought _disgusted him_ , this big, hulking man like a towering beast over his own delicate beauty. Now there’s a certain thrill in it, in the contrast. In the support of a hardened, chiseled warrior. It isn’t a chore like it used to be, and Maeglin’s not proud of that, tries to ignore that— _he is in control and this is a plan._ But a small part of him knows that it’s a lie and eagerly parts his legs, drawing Salgant towards him with his knees.

Their lips meet, soft at first, Salgant’s reverent of Maeglin’s loveliness. Then that dissolves, and when it becomes clear that Salgant will get what he wants, he dares to go harder and grinds Maeglin down into the pillows, fills him with tongue and ravishes him, all grace forgotten in a clear haze of lust. When they part, Salgant promises, both firm and wistful, “You have my support and always will.”

Maeglin smiles as sweetly as he can. Then he reaches down between them and cups Salgant’s crotch to assure it. Salgant groans, eyes fluttering. Maeglin massages it through Salgant’s robes and repeats in a languid, whispered moan, “ _I need you._ ”

Salgant nods, kisses Maeglin’s cheek, and reaches for the nightstand—a vial always ready. Maeglin stares up at the canopy and wonders why he does this.

He still stares while Salgant prepares him, blunt, thick fingers that come with a surge of pleasure-pain, properly wet but too wide for Maeglin’s little hole by nature. He doesn’t look at his lover when he’s entered with something larger, just shuts his eyes and shivers—sometimes he hates how _good_ it feels—and then Salgant’s nudging his face aside for a kiss and he can’t look away anymore.

By the third kiss, he’s returning it equally, hips grinding up but unable to match the ferocity of Salgant’s thrusts. Salgant pounds him into the bed, all the weight of Salgant’s muscles forcing the bed to groan and the frame to clatter against the wall. Salgant breathes too hard and smells muskier than Maeglin would like and bites him occasionally, scratches him, never harsh enough to leave marks but enough to _feel_ , to add a certain gritty realness to it that prevents Maeglin’s escape. Maeglin runs his hands over Salgant’s back and wonders why this is so, _so_ satisfying. Maybe it’s because he can feel Salgant’s adoration, and he’s heard all the beautiful songs Salgant’s made about him. 

He always gets annoyed when Salgant doesn’t scream his name at the climax, but this time, Salgant does, breathing it hoarsely against Maeglin’s shoulder as Maeglin’s filled with his seed. The rush of it is hot, sudden, makes Maeglin grunt and grit his teeth together. Salgant hasn’t touched Maeglin’s cock, not because Salgant isn’t a generous lover, but because Maeglin doesn’t like to be touched there. He waits until after to decide if he’ll come or not. He always hopes he won’t.

This time, Salgant lifts to sit, still buried deep, panting for air and lightly glistening with sweat—it’s still midday, and all their thick robes are on. Then he rocks his hips forward once, and Maeglin comes from that alone, bursting across his own stomach with a mix of elation and shame. Salgant always finds the right spot. 

Salgant looks down at him so lovingly. Salgant leans in again for a kiss that Maeglin clings to, then murmurs, “You are so pretty when you come.” Maeglin cringes at the word ‘pretty’ but doesn’t correct it. He likes that Salgant loves the look of him. 

Maeglin needs a bath. He reeks of improper sex. But he doesn’t move and just waits for Salgant to pull out of him with a remorseful sigh. He watches Salgant walk, humming lightly, across the room, fetching a handheld golden harp from its pedestal by the fireplace.

When he returns to the bed, he sits next to Maeglin’s spent form and sets in to play Maeglin’s favourite song. Maeglin curls against his side and listens.


End file.
